


Punch to the mouth

by skyjacklegion



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M, Violence, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:49:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyjacklegion/pseuds/skyjacklegion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, the fight's been a long time coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punch to the mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Dub-con, violence and blood.

In retrospect, the fist-fight is a long time coming, and it’s a good thing the girls are on a store run. Shaun’s head rocks back with the force of the blow and he staggers, blood catching at the corner of his mouth. He brings his knee up on reflex and Desmond gets it straight in the hip, stumbling as Shaun launches himself at him.  
  
Shaun’s better at logistics. He’s a little pudgy around the middle and he’s been out of the field for four years, long enough for him to have lost a little of his edge. For all that he’s doing most of the fighting in the Animus, Desmond’s fast and strong and has really, really sharp elbows. Shaun’s bleeding more but Desmond’ll have more bruises, his eye starting to swell shut where his fist glanced off it.  
  
There’s a creaking snap and the table breaks as the lighter man  throws  Shaun onto it, the wood digging long, bloody gauges against his side as he kicks up and catches the other man in the kneecap, sending him off to the side with a wince. Shaun rolls backwards and off the platform, landing on his knees and leaping to the side just in time to avoid Desmond’s rather spirited attempt to stomp on his bloody head.  
  
It’s the snick of the blade snapping out that stops them both cold. Desmond’s panting, lips cracked and nose bleeding, his eye swelling shut and hood pulled sideways around his neck, the blade tearing a messy hole in the wrist of his hoodie. He stares down at his wrist like its betrayed him and all Shaun can think is that he never got to see his bloody cat again.  
  
He cants his left hip. Shaun’s good at noticing things about people; it saved him from getting into situations like this when he was a kid, avoiding bullies who followed him around for his lunchmoney. Skills borne of adversity and all that. Desmond cants his left hip when he’s about to launch and that’s all the warning he gets. He dodges left, not right (Desmond would expect him to dodge right) and gets an arm around the neck for his troubles, the blade pressing up against his ear as they both fall to the floor in a tangle.  
  
The arm around his neck tightens and the blade gives him a lovely new ear piercing and then there’s Desmond’s teeth and blood on his tongue and-  
  
As far as fighting tactics go, he’s not sure biting at his tongue and sliding a thigh between his legs from behind is really that effective. Thing is, he’s hard as rock and fucking begging for it, arching back against the man like nothing else matters and the first word he says is his name, it’s just “Desmond” like there’s nothing else in the world and the heavy, hot feeling in his stomach is wrapped right around the blade being held at that soft point right behind his ear.  
  
“Will you just-”  
  
“Fuck, get that shirt off I can’t-”  
  
“Sodding wank of a thing will it just- hey hey  _easy_  on the buttons!”  
  
Desmond slides the blade down from his throat to his shirt and tears through it, the silver disappearing back up his sleeve with a flick and then it’s hands and teeth and there’s nothing between his skin and Desmond’s apparent desire to bite his way through to his fucking -spine-. The hoodie comes off with a little maneuvering and Shaun twists his hand in the other man’s t-shirt and yanks it up, growling against his throat and biting his way up to his jaw.  
  
Getting Desmond undressed is a battle in of itself. He’s all dark eyes and snarls and completely -there-, completely himself which is a novelty and something Shaun wants to take advantage of. They roll around on the ground, the stone cold and hard against his back and Desmond warm and hard and straddling his legs, leaning down to bite at the fleshy part of his stomach. He makes this noise, like he’s  hungry  and Shaun’s pretty sure he should start checking his old Romero films or something. Desmond’s arms get tangled in the shirt as Shaun’s yanking it off, wrists twisted and the fabric catching on the blade and then there’s nothing but skin, bruised and battered.  
  
He can’t stop touching him. It’s probably some sort of disease that Shaun’s caught from being in close proximity to Rebecca and her filthy fucking porn and her tendency to read the best bits out loud while Desmond’s snoring away on the Animus and Shaun tries to hide his unfortunate boner under the desk. The fact that since she discovered he’s actually pretty geared towards hearing people speak (not that she’d found out by ordering him around in the bedroom or anything) she keeps reading porn from movies he used to watch by himself in his flat and most certainly didn’t jerk off to thank you very much, well. It doesn’t help matters. And Desmond doesn’t fucking shut up. He’s making all of these sounds, like he’s hungry and he’s wanting and Shaun’s not even sure he can last long enough to give him what he needs.  
  
His glasses are fogging up. He tears them off, flinging them in the general direction of his shirt, only wincing a little when he hears them hit stone but he’s got six extra pairs, it doesn’t matter.  
  
Desmond’s got his belt undone while he was distracted. For a guy who’d just been kicked and hit in the head not ten minutes before, he’s fast and efficient and has quite amazing hands. Shaun remains clinical for a grand total of half a second, but Desmond runs this thumb right over the head of his cock and it feels- Like he’s been waiting forever. Grabbing at his shoulders, Shaun arches up, stopped by both Desmond’s free hand and the fact that he’s sitting on his fucking legs and still has his god forsaken  jeans  on.  
  
“For fucks sake, Miles!” And apparently that’s exactly the right thing to say because Desmond’s eyes go dark, pupils blown, his mouth opening just a little. Just enough for Shaun to surge up and kiss him, hands going to his hips and fumbling at the waistband of his jeans. He’s fourteen and with Sally Devons all over again, hands shaking and arse fucking cold.  Desmond solves that by sliding his hands down the back of his fucking pants and leaves a streak of blood across his jaw with his tongue.   
  
Shaun finally gets his pants open and he can’t even keep control over what he’s saying anymore. It’s all coming out in a jumble, gasped “Desmond”’s and “fucking hell”’s and “You don’t even get what you’re doing to me” only he does, because the grin he graces him with is actually quite feral.   
  
And then, of course, the bastard has to start talking at him. It’s like he -knows- or something, his fingers sliding up and along his hips, deliberately not touching him even as Shaun takes him in hand, the length of him warm and heavy against his palm.   
  
“Even your fucking glasses get me hot. Sweaters and fucking button up shirts and you roll them up your arms and fuck you don’t even get it, you just push up your fucking glasses and move your goddamn wrists and -fuck-.” He’s just going and going and his thumb’s right back where Shaun wants it, pressed just under the head of his dick. He’s barely holding it together, shaking with want and the taste of Desmond’s blood on his tongue and it occurs to him rather belatedly that the man might be riddled with fucking long-distance STI’s thanks to Ezio but he can’t make himself care.  
  
“You’ve been sodding -colluding- with Rebecca haven’t you, you little shit-” Cutting him off with a kiss, Desmond laughs and there’s that feeling again, warm and bright and pushing his skin away. He’s worried, for a moment, that Desmond’s not himself and that he’s going to start talking in fucking Arabic or Italian and he’ll have to punch him in the jaw but-  
  
Desmond doesn’t speak anything but Queens fucking English as he jerks him off, slow and hard. His hand is almost unbearably warm and he twists his wrist and Shaun feels like his brains are being sucked right out of his dick. He’s still keeping up that litany, panting against his mouth and gripping onto his hip, sprawled in his lap like so much fantastic porn. Only this is really happening, Desmond’s really gasping against his mouth how much he likes his fucking hands and he feels like he doesn’t know what’s going on, like he’s fumbling in the dark and there’s a light at the end of the tunnel but the blasted thing keeps -moving-.  
  
Heat building at the base of his spine slides up and along his back as he kisses Desmond to shut him up, licking into his mouth like it’s the only thing he ever wants to do. The noise the other man makes probably should’ve come from a fucking whale or something, all high pitched and needy and god, he’s rocking into his hand, hair scratching against his fingers and there’s only so much of this he can take.  
  
Desmond comes kissing him and it feels like he’s won the award for best handjob ever given. They didn’t even manage to get their pants off the whole way but Desmond does that -thing- with his fingers (more like his hand is fucking convulsing or something because he still looks blissed out and  he put that look there this is fucking fantastic ) and he’s coming so hard he nearly blacks out, back arching and mouth pressing painfully hard, teeth knocking together.   
  
He’s still got his eyes closed when Desmond kisses him again, slow and unhurried and still there, saying his name like it’s something between a prayer and a curse. He’s fucking freezing and that statue of Altair is staring at him disapprovingly.   
  
“Well,” he says, mouth twisting into something like a smile as Desmond pulls back a little. The little wanker wipes his hand off on his pants and Shaun retaliates by smearing what he has in his hand on the bastards stomach, which just makes him laugh and twist his hips and  _oh_. “That went well, I think.”  
  
“Shut up, Shaun.”  
  
“Your bloody ancestor’s glaring at me over your shoulder I will not shut up-” he starts and Desmond makes a strangled noise, the scar on his mouth pulling at his smiles and kisses him again, pushing him down against the stone, hands on his shoulders. They’re covered in blood and bruises and come and his ear fucking stings and there’s a rip in his pants and he’s only just realised he’s been hopelessly in love with a man who punched him in the mouth.  
  
“Shut  up , Shaun.”  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh.   
  
Right. 


End file.
